Africa part 5 of 10

Wednesday:
We met with our Kisumu partners at the church and were planning on going to their houses, then on a door to door outreach. My partner happened to be the one person who didn't live within walking distance (he rode his bike), so I ended up going with another team member and a couple of guys from KBC. We first went to where they lived, which was a building just across the "street" and down half a block. It was a 3story brick building. Out front of the brick building were some kids we recognized. They were always in front of this building. Every time we went to or from the church, we drove past them. Every time, without fail, they would jump to their feet and give us the thumbs up sign.

Well we walked past them and into the staircase. There were no doors, just steps. The steps were made of cement and, especially the second flight of them, was very worn. We had to step on the outside edges to actually get on the step. The center was basically a steep ramp with small bumps to remind you where the step used to be. We walked into the hallway. It was very dark in there, but I could make out 4 wooden doors, not fully sealed and without real doorknobs or locks. One of the guys lived in the first doorway. His room was about 7" by 11". He had a couch against the first wall and a chair facing that. Behind the chair was his bed. There was cardboard on some of the walls, not sure why.

Now, when I say "couch" and "chair", I don't mean a plush couch and lazy boy. Most of the couches we saw were similar to what we normally think of as the frame of a futon, just a wooden frame. On the frame, there would be a 2 or 3-inch thick cushion and usually some sort of fabric covering thrown over it. They would usually seat only 2 or 3 people. The chairs were similar, just shorter. Most had the armrest and the same type of cushion setup.

The other guy lived in the room at the end of the hall. This was the smallest room. It wasn't rectangular, but had just enough room for his bed, one chair and barely enough room for the four of us to stand in between them. He had some futball (soccer) posters on his wall.

The room in the corner (between these two guys) was occupied by a man and his 3 kids. His kids were the "thumbs up boys" from out front. His room was about the same size as the first room. He had a sheet hanging between his sitting area and his bed. He had a couch and two chairs, with a small coffee table between them. We went in and talked to him a bit. He spoke some English, so we talked slowly and sometimes had to use an interpreter. For those of you who may not know, I am very quiet until I get to know someone (if I've known you for awhile and I'm still quiet, maybe I just don't like you). To complicate the situation, both KBC guys we were with, were pretty quiet also. So, when I say we talked a bit, I mean that I talked very little and my team member talked a lot more. I don't know if she was totally comfortable, but she did a good job and became my hero as soon as she broke the silence. This guy was one of the people that day to accept Jesus into his heart. He said he hadn't ever been to the church, but would now start going.

After stopping by their living quarters (more like living pennies), we headed out to some other homes and along the way handed out some tracts and invitations to the kids for VBS. The kids would come running, shouting "wazungu, wazungu", and couldn't get enough invitations. They were excited to get anything, even a piece of paper. They followed us as we walked through the neighborhood. This was the first real look I got of the area around the church. We saw a lot of mud huts, but there were also some small brick houses. There was no grass to play in. The kids were just hanging around. There was garbage everywhere. There were a lot of ladies out doing laundry in plastic tubs and hanging them up to dry and some people just sitting or standing in their doorway. The street the church was on seemed to be some sort of a main walkway. Along it on both sides, sporadically placed, you could find little "businesses". There were seamstresses, a grocery store (one small room), little restaurants (shanties with one table) and even a lady cooking corn on the cob to sell.

We would walk up to and at least shake hands with as many people as we could. A lot of Kenyans, even if they don't speak English, understand "How are you"? so I would shake their hand, smile and ask "How are you"? Most would either say "Fine" or just smile back. The reply of the day, which still sticks with me, was from one of the ladies out in the alley. I shook their hands and asked how they were. One said "Fine", but the other muttered quietly "We are not fine, we are poor!".

I just kinda half-heartedly smiled and, having no reply, kinda turned and went to catch up with the others. So, even though a lot of these people (especially kids) appear to be fairly content in life because they do not know any different, I think it is wrong to assume this is always the case. I really feel bad for most of these people; it's a very sad situation. That comment really got to me. I am not, by American standards, a rich person. However, I was standing there with a still camera around my neck and a video camera on my hip. With the average wage of about 4000 shillings a month, these cameras represent just over three years of wages to a Kenyan (if they were lucky enough to have a job). I wasn't there to show off what I had, but couldn't help feeling selfish and was trying to go out of my way so as not to seem snobbish.

VBS continued to grow throughout the week, up to over 300. By
Wednesday, it was getting very hard for me to take natural pictures of the kids. As soon as they saw the camera, they would all start to jockey for position. Kinda like at a storefront just before the doors open on the day after Thanksgiving. I could hardly get the camera aimed and focused before kids filled the area and disrupted the shot I was trying to get.


On the way home from VBS, we ran into a traffic jam. We could see problems ahead, right in front of the marketplace. I had been trying to get some good shots of the marketplace all week, but, with the car moving, they weren't turning out very good. So I figured this was my chance to shoot some photos while we were slowed down or stopped. By the time we got to the problem area, people were crowding around and besides blocking my shot, were making me nervous being right outside my window. I had been told that thieves have been known to reach in and grab things right out of the car window. So, although I had the camera strap wrapped around my wrist a couple of times, I tried to hide it with my arm. Meanwhile, a large army-type truck with canvas covered canopy, snaked in front of us. About the time it stopped, two police dudes in full camo carrying automatic rifles, jumped out of the back yelling and motioning to back off. The crowd dispersed quickly. Well, not wanting to be thrown into an African prison (or any other prison for that matter), I avoided eye contact.

Turns out, there was a bota bota under a van. I wasn't looking too closely, because I really wouldn't want to see a mutilated body. But I could see the van being jacked up and the remains of a bike underneath it. Hopefully the bota bota dude is ok. Traffic was mostly coming from the other way and it backed up quickly. Once we got through the mess, we ran into oncoming traffic, who had taken it upon themselves to form 4 lanes across the two-lane road, all headed toward us, we had to drive off the road and down the dirt area by where the sellers set up. I had visions of running through a fruit stand and having chickens bounce off the hood (I think I've seen that in the movies). Well, our driver, whom shall remain nameless, but we all know who he is because none of the BABC team drove, took it all in stride. He was speaking Swahili (rather loudly and with a bit of a twitch), but I'm pretty sure he was just trying to warn the cows and pigs to get out of the way.

The good news for the day was that 9 pieces of luggage had come in. We didn't know whose they were, just that they would be on the afternoon flight. I don't really consider myself a pessimist, more like a guy who hopes for the best but at the same time plans for the worst (at least outwardly). So, at this point, I figured I would never see my suitcase again and I would need to continue to wash clothes every couple of days, three days if I didn't mind wearing my new brief-bikini-boxer thingys.


So when the luggage arrived, I sauntered out (because sometimes I just like to saunter), and I saw one of my bags up top, and yup, I found the other one too. I now had all of my stuff, or so I thought. I went to my little corner of the room and open them up, ready to grab all the stuff that I've been wanting and needing. As I ruffled through the suitcase, looking for that something I so desperately needed, I began to slow down. Soon I was just looking at the stuff, trying to remember why I needed these bags at all; eventually I came to the conclusion that there wasn't actually anything I NEEDED in them. There was some stuff that would come in handy (such as my hat) and make life easier (such as bug spray), but I would have been fine without most of this. I noticed that there were a couple of baggies of things missing. For those of you who are now automatically thinking drugs, and you know who you are, don't be so cynical. There is no way I would take drugs into Africa; everybody knows I could pick them up much cheaper once I got there!

Anyway, one baggie had a bunch of individually wrapped handi-wipes; another had a small container of hand sanitizer, some 100% deet bug spray and my travel-sized sunscreen. Luckily, I had split the stuff up into different baggies and so I still had some sanitizer, deet and sunscreen. This was especially nice since we were headed to the bush the soon. I felt better just knowing that, somewhere in Nairobi, there was a disinfected, light skinned baggage handler who isn't swatting at mosquitoes anymore. After all, I came to help out wherever needed. I just look at it as a baggage handling tax, of sorts. Most people were missing some stuff, crayons, Kool-Aid, shoes but the weirdest thing was that one person's Bible ended up in the suitcase of another person. Maybe that was their way of evangelizing, who knows?

Thursday:

One of the things we needed to do was to build a large portable screen to show movies on. We already had a canvas to be used as the screen; we just needed to construct a frame out of pvc pipe. The canvas, however, was in need of some repair. Some of the grommets in the corners were ripped out. I volunteered to patch and sew some new material over the corners, doubling it up so that, when I put new grommets in, they would last longer. I took my little project down to the church with us. As I was beginning to measure and figure out what exactly I needed to do, someone mentioned that there was a seamstress across the alley. Hmmm, that sounded a lot easier, and probably a slight bit better. So, I grabbed the canvas, and the church security guard, and headed just down the alley. There were a few reasons for taking the security dude.

1) Duh, security.
2) Translator.
3) Make sure I didn't get price gouged.


Well, as usual, as soon as we walked out of the compound, I felt people looking at me. They just couldn't wait to see what the white guy, carrying a big piece of canvas, and a camera around his neck, was up to. Actually, they may have just been wondering "Why does this guy always wear that same shirt"? We headed down the alley (which was technically a road, I think) and across the way you could see a handful of ladies on a porch. Two of them were sitting at sewing machines, while the rest were sitting/standing nearby watching. There were bold, African print dresses hanging all around. Sure, they can make nice dresses, but can they take a corner, fold it over and sew a triangle pattern? So I kinda 'splained what I wanted (through hand motions and the interpreter) and she seemed to understand. So she re-threaded her vintage singer machine and started cranking on the foot pedal (no electricity). At this point, I wondered if she really understood what I needed. It didn't really matter, I figured she either

1) Understood and we could watch the film, or

2) Misunderstood and I could stand in front of everybody (in some new canvas overalls) and explain why the film was cancelled.

While she worked, I just kinda hung out, took a few pictures and made some new friends (two little kids who wanted their pictures taken). Meanwhile the girl watching the seamstress (I guess she was learning the trade), kept shyly giggling or maybe she was outright laughing at me.

Beside the porch, I noticed an iron. It was a bit smaller than the irons we're used to, but had basically the same shape. It was just a hollow, cast iron container, with a cast iron lid on hinges and a handle on top (as if the handle could be on the bottom). To use it, they would fill it with hot coals, close the lid and viola, it was ready to go. So I guess, in a sense, you could call it a cordless iron with auto shut-off. When the coals cool, it's off. It's pretty amazing how these simple things are still used. Hmm, I wondered if this same method would work with curling irons.

Anyway, as I contemplated the whole coal-powered cast-iron curling iron, she finished my project. It looked good. She wanted 20 shillings.

Whoa, wait a minute. I don't normally barter, but 20 shillings? I'm not sure if that's fair. Just because I'm American, doesn't mean you can charge me whatever you want to! So I thanked her, gave her 50 shillings and left. After all, she did a great job and I wouldn't have to embarrass myself with my sewing abilities. Besides, 50 shillings is only about 60 cents.

After attaching the grommets, it was back to painting and spackling, hmmm, maybe I should have just stuck to hand stitching the canvas, then I could have avoided the spackling.

A lot of kids showed up for VBS, just over 300. During the "game time" segment, they were each given one cookie and some punch. Some of these kids had shown up everyday for almost a week. Three hours a day and this is the first cookie they were given (other days they would get one piece of tootsie roll sized candy). I know that back home, at our church, if kids are there for a couple hours and don't get a snack; they act as if they are being punished. And what happens if nobody brings treats to the adult Sunday school class? I'm not even going to touch that discussion. Well these kids, once again, patiently went through the line, got a cookie, a cup of punch and went out and sat on the basketball court. I saw one kid carrying his little sister, two cookies, and two cups and he was still smiling. The more I let that picture sink in, the more I feel like a girl watching "Sleepless in Seattle" or something (a little teary eyed).

Speaking of which, we are all familiar with one truth: Real men don't cry at movies. Now, there have been a few times I've been accused of doing just that. But I would like to take a few moments here to clarify these accusations, in random order:

- Field of Dreams - When Kevin Costner gets to play catch with his dad. As it happens, I was coming down with a cold and was just sniffling a bit.

- Up Close and Personal - When the newscast shows Robert Redford's boots. I had just gotten my leg pinched in the recliner, and although I am usually much tougher than that, at the time I was weakened by an oncoming cold.

-Casablanca - When Humphrey Bogart stays behind while Ingrid Bergman leaves on the plane. I'm not sure of all the facts here. When I first saw this, I was in High School, and you know how a guy?s hormones can be out of whack during those years. Besides, it was cold season.

- The Rookie - When he tells his wife, over the phone, that he made the big leagues. Strange thing is that I still had jalapeno on my finger from dinner and, while trying to remove a small gnat from my eye, transferred just enough to get my eyes watering.

-Old Yeller - NOT!.... Actually, I thought that was a comedy.

- There are some chick flicks I felt like crying through, but mainly just because they were terrible movies.....

Where was I? Oh yeah...
On the way home, I saw a motorcycle (there weren't many of them, but I saw a few), bounce off a car. He just kinda got up, shook it off and went on his merry way.



Another culture contrast: If that happened here in the states, it would have gone something like this:

- Car slows down.
- Motorcycle man runs into car.
- 4 dozen additional cars stop and offer the use of their cell phone.
- Motorcycle rider lies there until the cops come.
- Auto driver blames Motorcycle man.
- Motorcycle man blames auto driver.
- Traffic slows as 4 lanes are blocked off while haz-mat cleans up the mess from spilled gas and soiled jeans.
- Traffic continues to be rerouted as cops investigate and measure skid marks (on the road, not the jeans).
- Several years later, a sympathetic jury awards a few million dollars to the uninsured, crack sniffing motorcycle rider because the auto driver failed to read the small print (objects in mirror are closer than they appear) and although his traffic light was turning red, he should have known that motorcycle man had been on a drinking binge and therefore, believed that the auto driver would hit the gas to get through the yellow light.
- While in court, in a separate motion, motorcycle man succeeds in getting the street name changed from "High Street", because he felt it was prejudicial to people who sniffed crack; The street is now called "Skidmore".

Off track again? Sheesh, I'll never finish this...